what was once presentleaves a human shapestainsmicrofilmsi can close my eyesplay a songrecreate

i live as a fishswimming in one directionas a cat with a correct way to be touched

this is how we livetogethersuffering the pastshaunting us from other directions

my heart knows dates on calendarsbirthdayslast time seensthe day the news camehow it sank in slowly steapingthe arrivals and the breaksthe intersections and the rupturesdeaths declaredthe phase of the moon at burial

i couldn't forget if i triedheavy as a cedar chest

sometimes there is no getting overonly througha navigation of shark jawscling to the anecdotesthe tiny turn of moutha story about corn in rumble seatsthe feel of park wood on spine with head between thighsnervous ticslaughterthese are what will remain in slow motionin slumberand the comfort of dreams

i can hardly believe i ever knewi can never believe how time is cutby cleavers of watch arms

"you know what i am jealous of?i am jealous of those of you who knew ____longer, better"says the man across a tableand my heart echos that panggreedy green monster that it is, i knowno marathon is as kudzuovergrownenough.

I suppose the moonlit North Carolina nightsmade me your romantic,tempted you to call me your lover in poems,tempted you to call our time spent togethera kind of intimacy,and I am just the sort of sweet smelling bull frogsymphony to let you.

We were only together for summer times,and even then our trysts seemed breathless,brief,ended all too soon by the beep of a watch,the bugle announcing the girls' turnto distract us.You began clumsy,pillaging the still calm of my waterswith the ugly slap-smack of a canoe paddle.

Silly summer-camp child, you tried to touch me inexperienced.You tried to navigate every nuanceof my body with awkward unlearned strokes,I waited for you to grow up.

And you did,beautifully.Your arms became strong and skilled.Still in your canoe, the blunt broad toolfinally granted you grace,transformed all of your bodyinto pure touch.Your biceps transfiguredinto the pink muscle of throat,your hands molded into a lover's lips,and your paddle,boy, became your tongue tracing acrossmy body.

I still ripple echoes of this compassion even now.

But even this touch, this bliss,was foreplay.A waiting game until you found yourselfat home in a small-ish plastic kayakat the edge of the dock.Nervous, cold, and short of breath,you plunged, deep.

The water struck your face, untender.I finally had to teach you the lesson of a water's womb.Ingrain, into your shut tight eyes,the skewed perception of a kayak,of my embrace.I had to teach you to survivewhen your instincts are flawed.

Tethered to your vessel,you fell.You capsized into me, breathless.Upside down, underwater,you must not gasp,thrash, claw for somethingyou are certain will save you.

This sort of action spells death.My child, in my loose grasp you learnedto stay calm, bubble ration your breath,hear the slow echo drum of the depthsas Gospel.With my kiss at your lips,your right became left, your up became down,you learned roughly to ascend.

You learned to right yourself,with an armor forged of opposites,of focus, of the lessons taught to youby others just as in love with me as you were,are, and ever will be.

Use your paddle,set your leverage,thrust your hips,strike the water.

You emerged from the dark wet,like a new born.Water burning your nose,and your old instincts sinkingto the bottom.

Catch your rippled reflection in a glass, in a gourd, in an adversary's skull. Watch your face dissipate into sunshine, tilt the vessel back, drink the water.

Feel the echoes of a thousand year strife, feel them ransack your throat. Feel the salt strip away your voice until it's all blood, all gnarled raw, until it's rubble and all you can dare do is spit up your madness, and choke.

This is my blood, your water, my outraged waves cresting to splinter the West Bank. This is my name made all too palpable. This is your Dead Sea.

This is the elements putting on a parody of its people. My hands are stigmata'd with shrapnel, my sides split by sniper fire, my deep blue tattooed with the endless rat-tat-tat-tat of an AK-47's signature riddled into the mud of my womb.

There can be no life in my waters. Your legacy was left churning into hemlock stink waters. I am inhospitable even to the unnatural architecture of fish, algae. The salt in my spit will shred the insides of such life into razor-bladed scraps of paper, into pink ribbons too rung out to cradle anything but old animosity.

I am caked with your routines, the constant summer sun blackens my tides. My water knits into jagged teeth, smashing into the shore, stabbing it like chunks of molten metal, like shrapnel. I suicide bomb with each sand-scattering wave, trying to convince you, trying to share my religion.

I am begging you to see my cliffs, crusted with salt so coarse it could stay there forever. Timeless, like the way your wars threaten to be.

I cannot hold anyone close enough to sustain life. The water too dense to bring you to my muck, to my jagged diamond-cut womb. Everything floats, I will not hide your dead. My waters are ancient balm to make mummies of kings who saw themselves equal with the sun.

Everybody loves a good fire, something impossible to drop a jaw while you're watching. I was only trying to show you a miracle. It was not an invitation to change me.

As your constant companion, I sought your friendship. I giggled as you gutted me, filled my shores with cold unfeeling concrete, making me an industry. I loved each and every ounce of your filth. It brought us closer.

I turned my riverbeds into a shrine, an altar to praise your broken cities. Industries boomed and faded to shade in the reflection of my choking black waters. True love is never healthy when you mean it, So pollute me.

Fill me with the discarded scraps of your human experience like you once so eagerly did. Mound me with your refuse, I could never refuse you my muck, So pollute me. Dump your communion wafer waste, your sins, choke me with fetid bliss and I will once again announce my love to you.

I will burn bright for my lovers, for Cleveland. I will burn all orange against the black of night and my rotting waters. This was not a tragedy. Every dead fish, every burnt scrap of something, was an offering to you, my cities.

Self-destructive, infatuated, with the faded portraits of your America. I set myself alight in that 1969 moment in time just to pay back all the love you've given me. Just to pay it back, in kind.

But you claimed to know me. You dragged my shrine until it shined, wiped of all the gifts you offered me. You made me a home for fish, for ugly scaled intruders, that waltz into our love story. They have no business touching me, defiling the bed I've laid out for every body you dump in me.

Give me a corpse to kiss, to hold. Give me garbage, some rotting memento to press into my muddy bottom. Do not leave me alone.

Nature has no business here, in between us. Turn my waters to bubbling swirls or smothering black. Set me ablaze again. Set your rusting car skeletons to disintegrate on my tongue. Your industries, history, and sins all rotting in my arms.

Let's suicide pact and never let go. Let's become a romance for the ages, the best ones all end in tragedy.

rumor has it people drownwith what begins as a tricklebecoming liquid againin sudden floodbut the fire of the sunlicks the rock here

this is a scorched earthwith its own policiesthe man made razor wiresfences spooled braces(unlike anything alongour creamier neighbors to the north)no match for the pincushionsthe needles of cactusthis is Hades, ready made

whatever pissing contestplays out herewill eventually succumb to lavamama earthwill drink it innot even a dropleton the fingernail of her time

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

the tar in the parking lotthick as coaloverstuffed dumpster of clawfoot chair legsmatterssespillowsthe policeempty it with glovesand poke with batonsthe scene is under surveillance

i am not surehow i got herebut there is yellow crime tapeenough to make a fetish dress, a ruffled skirtfriendly voices, coffee mugsnotes and photographs scratch and click.

i reach my hand into the masking tape outlineprong of parking spot paintintersecting with where eyes could have beenthe tape is therethe body goneclutching a badge, i receive a callevidence back at the stationi have a hunch.

i wake up with the questionwhere are you, where are youi felt so close to finding outright before the dream ended.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

I am distracted by the cloud driftpuffyI am inadequate by the measure of treestheir new spring green leavesI am the way rain grays white, ominousaquamarine is the skyI am the way the moon appears during the daysolid bulb, rock in the cumulous fluff.I am the sewing needle of the silver planedarting through and across.

what kind of tree? oak, mimosa, dogwooodwhat kind of cloud other than cumulous? stratus, nimbus, thunderheadcorrections, why the ominous, the grey?the restlessnessthe noise in my headrockbands of pound, unfinished, not rehearsingJung would probably saydeaththe way dreams are always about sex, loss of controlanxietynever aboutplot, narrative, nothing is as it seems

like this jewel of skythe height of treesthe clutter moving in and outstunning beauty of it inviting gazeinstead of concentrating on rocks in a tumblerwanting to be more than justideas.

There's only a week left of this brilliant extravaganza, the challenge of writing poems every day for National Poetry Month.We suggest keeping up such a good habit.We'll keep this blogspot live & continue to count the year in poems.

Today's RAC prompt is:

Describe/ usethe contents of (insert movie/book/cartoon/mythological character's name here) yard sale.Don't reveal the _______'s title or identity until either the very last lines, or at all.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

...to say i still miss, is just to say i will alwaysthat's what forever isthe repeatthe memory so strongtime stops you close your eyes and you are thereforever is the thrum of the achethe heart thudwhich is always the same note....

...i feel like i should like them...and i don'tthey are annoyingjust because they are doing what should be donedoesn't make them less annoying....

...irritated by the press of pillowsif only we could plug in...make sleep a battery....revisit the origin of burning midnight oil...

...religions all have stories i think i've heard beforewritten by either the same author, or by members of the same familya family of many who do similar things, like barrymore, kennedy, but maybe...maybe more like scripted by periodic table...i'm trailing.off. to sleep.

they don't understandwhere your ladders come fromspiralling down from spruce, aspen, evergreento take root in life is to bethick

anything else is starvingsad, shifty as willowweak to the aireasy to pluck and break

we were never thiswide hips to make homesfor ourselves as much as anychild likely to die or manlikely to die

wedon't come from thatwere not bornto be sprintersrunnersover flat desertsreeds thinned by heatshimmer of mirage

insteadwe were meant for darknesswelded from glaciercalves designed for trailshills, inclinecarriages and trunks carvedfor controlling menwith their beards and ships

we stretched butcher arms to help cut the meatpull the nets heavy with fishwe are mongers close to animalstough enough not to thawtree trunkswith enough foresight to stock a larderfor the snows coming inlocking us shutpiled six feet highfor weeks

we were our own insulationsurvival not worn in furs for fashion in scraps.able to hold our liquorwe were and are always made to beour own kindling.

young womanthere were eras of nights alonewe needed only ourselves to build the firetend the flockcut, skin, tend, pull, pound, stirgather grist, be a millwhalers' wives knew the art of paceand stiffened jaws

mens' opinions have always beensecondaryespecially those who don't knowthis ancestry of ropes tied in meticulous knotsoperatic voices of sagaIlmatar's childrenneed to be sturdy in the windsubstance enough to carry epicscave painted on the insides of our mouthseven in distant countries.

how should we tell you thiswhat should already be knownas well as flame, earth, waterorigins of shark bones and cosmic eggs?pull tidal umbilicusfrom your own bloodit's not too late to make the translation

It was standard alumni dinner shit.Boredom balloons and nutcrackerChristmas, finger food piledhigh on paper plates.Jingle Bell Rock rapingthe sound system.Everybody in there was prayingfor a fire,for a riot,for a phone call screaming for themto come home, to the hospital,to anywhere but this dreary dinner party.

Christmas sweaters strangledeveryone's confection-stretched necks,the punch bowl coagulated into pink huedswirls with a smell as strong as gasoline.The English department haunts the open barlike Hamlet's father, trading paper cupsof something strong, drinking themselvesinto their most convincing impressionsof Edgar Allen Poe.They slur swear words and lamentationson how no one will publish their next novel.

The math teachers count the millisecondscounting down to when it's ok to leave this place.It's all mistletoe and white-greenexasperation until...

Red lightning strikes the room.Red lipstick, a red dress,all of the sudden snapping intofirecracker tint.Slit up the thighs and cut low...The teachers tell us they can still hearthe sparks popping when it happened.

When He walked in.

Mr. Pierre, all quiet, timid substitute teacher,had a high voice the freshmen laughed at,and a sense of style the seniors could bow to.With his black shoulder-length hair,impeccably permed always,he could lecture in lieu of a math teacherand you could almost hear Tejanoas his tongue tangoed with each worddipping on its way out...this was way out.

Mr. Pierre,in his red dress,and high heels,walking taller than most of the girls.Every shimmy of his hipswas a gorilla slap against his chestand a lion shout:"Say something motherfucker,I dare you.

"I've filed these fire-engine acrylicsto better make my point.To better draw out your blood.To turn tonight into a story you can'ttell the classroom.So say something."

But of course, we quiet upper class sat there,tightly folding the wardrobes we won't daredisplay, shutting our own red dresses in their drawerto be cut down by the sharp creases of business suitbrutality.

That night, at that moment, everyone's soulscheered for Mr. Pierre.This drag queen dragging our dreams outinto the light.His dress became a victory flag,a firebomb in a china shop scattering shards ofsharpened gossip across the floor.They stuck in the skin as everyone walked to their cars.

Sticking deep, drawing blood,bright crimson dripping,a reminder of the man daring enoughto drape a dream over a substitute teacherturn him into a flag, a declaration of war.

So pull your dress out of your closet,strap on your best pair of heels,and walk tall.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

little girl in pink pajamas with purple heartsbathrobe, spins outside the venueit's 10.30pm on a wednesday nighta cigarette sticks to the bottom of her slipperas she spins, spins, spins, unawarean axis on ashes

the glowing neon light of the coffeeshop signblesses her faceshe likes being the center of attentionalready poses

one day, she will be a seekeralways falling for the ones with habitsloose hairpipe dreams, smoldering.

~

it's parents and kids tonightyoung bodies everywheresome of them with flashcardsequations, notebooks, papers to write.

the warm weatherlured themwith their kisses of fresh leavestongues of petal blossomsthe sweetness of flowerthe unwined grape scent of wysteria

so many girls in hereit's hard to breathe

so many older men with braided grey hairsa cultivated earthy

so many wives in hippie pattern shirtsclothes that swoop and bags in lime

so much suburbia crammed intoone side brick, one side bar, two sides window

so many glasses hitting each otheran electric violina tubayou would think it perfect

never mind the scar over one man's eyethe too loud voicesthe grating paws of certain mothersthe out of placecrooked planterthe art installation that gets knocked overthe girls clutching each otherescaping to split a brownie five ways

this is the same townwhere a nine year old foundsolace in electrical chordand the memory of himfloats outsidetucked in a shadowor the lingering smokeof a teenager's suriptituos lift of a wine bottlethe bar too frazzled to notice

this is written on torn notebook papersalready used as a cootie catchersmy fingertips got stuck therea lotand i could never figure outthe right palm slapping combinationyoung girls sang toominominaominominopscotslap slap slap slap over under sideways down

the cheerleaders werea pack of wolvesshort skirts, the colors under the pleatsflirting like gaps in fangsthey hit with these chanting gamesas though they were secret spellsand jumped ropes without twistingbetter than us of the sideline girlsrahrahrahrahand so and so, wink, flipmove arms,jumpupboobs,twirl and catch.

sitting on the grasswe were beyond cheershash marks of yardage on a football fieldwe tempted badnessset fire to hay with emptying everclear bottles(true story)threw matches into snowscritch, sshsh shhshh pop sounds of strikewhisperblow sizzle fizzle

we solidlydidn't want to like anythinganyone else did.we refused numbers on the backs of our shirtsand pom pomshad difficulty with letters of recommendationour grades were averagewe escaped noticerode dirt bikes with boysdidn't giggle with archery bowswe were untiedand very very veryafraidsuspecting ideas such asthere may not be a christ after alland the way he hangs there, all bound and bloodykind of s&mbloodybodybloodybondagechristonawallno escape no exit, like sartrelike menseschrist was such a girl

we moved like shadows and not-danced togroups like nitzer ebb and depeche modesuspectingin a gray hued, early u2 video about nothing changingon new year's daythat nothing ever wouldall is quiet, nothing changes, all is quietnothing changes, not even on new yearsit's interesting how quiet nothing changestruly a hush hush hush murmur murmur murmurover candle marked ticks of time

swimming with aim of anonymity from small towneveryone knows everyone for year on endunder microscopeour mediocrity was about to take a bigsenior leap into an even greater more invisibleyawn of meaninglessnessexplained as postmodernism in collegemeaninglessness without end

i still have burn marks from matches in the snowand i hold fear as the quietnessof unchangingcrumpling papers of check like mecheck nothush hushthe wolf packs are different nowi am still untiedgirl

When it is this warm,Big Daddy D comes out againfrom wherever he restswhether it's a nest of woodor a brick framed hovelnobody really knows.

Big Daddy Dis seen in passingor unavoidable on the cornerwhere Ponce meets Morelandjust where it becomes Briarcliff.

He is like the four cornersof sign and traffic lighta signalhe flags his package in lycrapolyester-maybe cotton blendbiker shorts and tank topsometimes with printed cotton excusefor over shirt, sometimes notcarved cane in handor umbrellahe leans on stopwhile always being on go.

Monday, April 19, 2010

The intersection of four way stopneon, twinkling party lightscoffee, bars, gallery and hop 'n'shopwill read cards to you better thana woman wearing a scarf, fake eye patcharmed with decks of inexplicable wands and bowls.

When the dog peeson the planter closest to the window:rain.the middle planterpartly cloudyfurthest awayhe's just peeing.

When you don't see fancy man for a few daysworry about your sex lifeit will be your own fingers for weeks tonot really come.If you see him more than once in a weekpimped out in shined shoes, satin bright colorsand Fedora,you will be twice lucky as long as he carries a bottlein a brown paper bag.If you see him twice in a week without a bag,you will get close, but it will be meaningless.If you see him on any Sundayyou will become attached.Fancy man has his own deck of cardsand it's all suits of hearts.

When the high pitched rent boy is arounddrama is about to enter your life.Duh. His.If you manage to escape talking to himor keep it shortother forms of drama will also pass you by.

If people who work at the cafe show upand it isn't their shiftyou will have surprisecommunication with far flung friendsyou haven't checked up on through the internet.If none arrive,you will have a week emptierof social plans than expected.This is also read as a good time to catch upwith a movie, yourselfon chores.

Don't think of yourself as a choreor the man in the fuzzy American flag blanket will show upand he will hang guilt from the eaves of your ribcagein sighs.

If a man rides by on a bikewith some enclosed shell contraption around itwellthat's just weird.That occurance will likely causea more surreal element to your dream patterns.

The white flamingos in the yard further down the blockwill multiply when you see more wobbly childrenpass on the sidewalkthan people runningor otherwise exercising with their leashedcanines.

If you sit behind the painted window regularlyfueled by strong, locally roasted coffeebeans,it's easy to read storiesinto anythingthat wanders into the frame.

This Sunday,Mark skipped out on the service,instead he shrugged off his pantslike Vatican vestments, hunched overhis young cock anointed with oilas he tight-gripped up and downeda prayer while the crimsonsmeared love letter of Mel Gibson'sThe Passion of the Christcast its sticky familiar spell.

In between cigarettes last Tuesday,Mark laughs out a cloud of smokeand tell me bloodis the best lubricant out thereand he can't wait to prove itto his girlfriend next sunday.I try not to judge.

As her parents kneel in prayer,Tori has acquainted her kneeswith the rough whiskered cheekof her living room carpet,and tuned her tongue tothe blessing of her best friend Amber'sbody parts.Young, in love, with no White BeardedFinger Pointer to tell them different.

This is the closest two sinners will ever getto seeing God without burning.They scribble prayers into the paradiseof each other's flesh, no English.In this Church, the faithful speak onlyin Tongues.

This is a 21st century Sunday. When the Church has shrunk too smallfor real Gods.The only baptism is the lonely cold showerfor as long as it takes to scrub off the stink.Our parents genuflect, arms folded silentlyas we kneel before lap top pornographyfetishizing our demons into somethingwe can dance with.

Jennifer is the Virgin Mother to nothingbut wet bedsheets and bruises,Mark is nobody's Messiahbut at least he's walking somewhere warm,with a Passion.Tori and Amber are the only reasonsI still believe love can last as long as Jesuspromised us it would .Jeremy and Evelyn understand forgivenessand open arms better than I ever willso go ahead.

Strike me down, Old Testament long beards.Call me your devil, you water walkers.

I remember when a hotel staywas something specialice bucket miraclesand the way orange crushsomehow tasted better, differentfrom an end of the hallwayvending machine.

Every once in awhileI remember learning how to drivehow it seemed like I would neverpass the DMV testcircling, jerking, parallel parkingdriving backwards.I probably couldn't nowbut all those windows down milesthrough small towns and cornfieldsor sneak outs into the citymade wheels fly.After the crunchand pound of accidentthe more than a month of stiffness and cricksit's good to remember the joyinstead of fear.

One of the pleasures of filling a journalis the starting freshthe binding crackinto a new onethe fresh scentsheets of possibilityto mark how you growand stay triumphantly the same.

These are the nudgesthat keep me breathingfrom tired eyes in travelsto the sigh of more paper trailsI doubt anyone will follow.

This afternoonit happened through a personyoung man with wide open face of shareto have met more kin over the last few daysthan he'd ever met beforerevealing his isolationover mediterranean feast.

A table of us who could be called jadedon a bad dayfalling in love with being just foundthe reason why poetry matters and connectsthe novelty, the newnesslike orange crushlike lessons learned toward freedomlike freshly opened journal pages

No one stopped to wonderabout how you got there.Why you were so desperatefor shelteryou dared to live in the woods,huddle up with theseshuffling behemoths,carve a niche out of a cave wallpoor girl,where was your home?

Where were the hundredsof flickering torches razing the woodto ash until you were found?where were the roadside signs and offersof reward?Were you a milk carton girlwith your dimpled smileand spiraled gold lockssharing space with the nutrition facts?Were you running away from home?Or were you takenby men too vile for your stories?Bound, gagged, and made dirtydid you chew your ropes,crawl to your feet,and run to the nearest warm place?Did you even have a home to run from?I've never stopped to wonder before now.But tonight I am pouring over your stories,every book of fables still echoing your heartbeatin its pages.I'm straining my too open eyesto find more about youin between the lines of big printed words,but the pictures are too prominentfor you to tell me your own story.When they came home from the huntwith blood on their breath, bitterness dripping hot off their chins,when they saw you,sleeping in their child's bedlike you were wanted...their porridge sipped, too hot,too cold, it all tasted too much like home for you,didn't it?Did they hind leg roar at you?Show their claws, their teeth, and tell you,"Go away.""Stupid human""Idiot girl""What made you think you'd find Home here?"Did you fall to the floor, then?Poor child, did you plead on four legs for their acceptance?Did you tell them through your tearsabout how that bed, that porridge,that place felt more like "belong" than anywhere?Did you tell them your story?When I flip the page, the picture shows you leavingin terror,famous fairy tale brat.What were you scared of?Was it the bears?Or the inevitable run outdoors,no place to run to,beasts too wild for bed-time on the prowl?Goldilocks,I have heard your story hundreds of times.Stopped shortCut offMuffled Earlyand now?I'm starting to wonder where you wentNext.Poor Girl,wind-swept, dirt-caked, desperate enough to steal foodfrom three Bears.Little Goldilocks,I'm beginning to wonderwhere you went next.What new grotesque den of Nightmares,do you dare call home,Now?

Thursday, April 15, 2010

An alarm to Pavlov's dogsthe wretch to epicacred to blood through oxygenthe arm to passenger seat in sudden stopthe football fanatic to beeropening the fridge after arriving home from workthe cough induced by dust bunnies

Reflex

"I'm sorry"is the bow releasefrom sensitive tongues everywhereit's the bullet we hope will magic an end

If letters could be punctuation"I'm sorry"would litter printer recycling bins everywhere.If we said"question mark"at the end of every upturned wordat the end of every sentence of questionears would tune it out as they do"I'm sorry."

It drools at the chinactivates salivary glandsand like forming new shapesto learn French or Russian pronounciationor to wave roll r's

"I'm sorry"persists

A boyfriend once dared mebid farewell to "I'm sorry"for a weekend, a full week, a month.At first, my hand slapping over my mouth became the reflexand then a bridle at "I'm so---"until at lastI felt a spearmint, a wintergreeningbehind my chicklet teethnot longer chewing at "I'm sorry's"the cleanest my mouthhad ever feltand one of the greatest favors done meby a man.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

I'm not one to chalk things to fate.The ecstasy of dice-shake roulette wheeljust holds more interest for me.But you, Windy City Woman, showed upwith armloads of survivor song andperfectly placed step ladder plateaus of common ground, every sentencehelped me ascend.

Your ribcage became my Atlantisyour words the bottomless ocean that held it.

Most of your poems talk of falling,of knee scrape anthems ofalmost making it.You talk of falling as if wecouldn't seethe majestic wings at your back.Stretched to white-feathered infinity.

You spoke of asthma, unable to breathe,open mouth, shallow lungsas if every molecule of oxygen traffic-jammed the highway of your throat.Every molecule fully aware it will leave your lungschanged, forever altered,transformed by your contact,Like all of us.

No, I was never one to chalk anything up to fate.I saw life as random shuffle but people like youmake me second guess that shit.How can I not believe in God when It sends angels from Chicago.

The staff meetingis kahki and bluebutton down and starvingblack dress and belt buckle skinny

In the corner is a girl who grew up on canned peasshe still has holes in her underwearand she actually darns socks.She will never have a nose described as pertaccepts her curves and doesn't have an eatingdisorderbut she will always feel like achurch mousequietly nibbling at the edges of the free lunchthinking to herself how people are so slow to evolve.

I have alwaysbelieved love to be an emerald thinggrassy and douglas fira gem, everywhere, and sometimes prickly.

With this in mind,I hang my green flagscarefully unfoldthe bonuses and beauties of medust them offfly a few of them half mast on moody daysyank the cords, pull the ropeand hope for wind to notice.

Today, it's my armsthe hugsmy loyalty, my laughterthe guy I held the door open fora big tip I left, waves of neighborsthe faces in dreams I visitedthe fashion of the blood in my hearteasily available for manyspread over friendships in gravybecause I am single.

But I can't talk about the green flagsof all my plus signs without the color oppositethe scarlets, the trampy rouges, the tacky fire enginesof my faultsmy messy floorsaversions to chores and initiation of uncomfortable conversationsmy darting eyesthe quick burn of my Aries flamesmy zealotry for languagethe way money moves like dirty water through my hands.

Red flags are one of the reasons I believe love to benot the color of blood (which we all know is really blue underneath)of ruby upside-down asses in cut-out hearts.The fabric for these is faded, crumpledbut I will say clean and they are so much heavierto run up the poles.I do it dutifullyand never half mastI want the wind to see these first.

Yet on seeingI know the wind, like peoplesometimes breezes color blind.This is where the devious in me relies on the factof statisticred and green color blindnessis by far the most common formabout 99%and causes problems in distinguishingred flagsfrom greens

Several ruinous events happened in history on the 14-15 of April. Lincoln took a bullet to the head, the dust bowl rolled through farmland, the costliest disaster in Australian history rained down in hail, and at midnight, an iceberg hit the Titanic. So, watch your backs!

You can prompt this (Gillian Welch did in two songs), maybe by writing about your own worst day, or make one up around an Ides (15th of any month, not jsut March).

Monday, April 12, 2010

Four am and I'm looking up at the Big Dipper through veils of smokewhisps of steam from a hot bath over rocksthis is what we do out here for funthe others are laughing, drinking, getting highI am on the side of the frame againputting my ears underwater to hear my own thoughtsblood rushing outside my ears for once from the water.

Before tonightthere was this afternoonred streaked cheeks asking me about faithspirituality, how can I believe in a fairytale G-da wrathful onea detatched fat man smiling maniacly at buffet restaurantsor a pagan appropriated hair product for sheen figure?Too many wretched events march on without a coming againor a princess lotus blossom of tranquility unfolding.How---how can there be any force greater thanthis planet spinning in an unknowable sea of blackness?

Lying in the bath, looking up at what we call constellationsI feel the familiar panic rising up from my chestflowering in my throat and headmy own drum skipping beatsI, too will die and disappearinto...what's the answer?The prickle comes, bursts,yawns a swallowing mouth akin to fear around me.

What I didn't tell her is that my faith lies in the momentof my mortality spellgoing away.The fact that it is temporary and leavesmay be a rational gracea tick of a clockthe fall of a raindrop on a leafthe very-few hours lifespan of a butterflythe cicada's 17yrs of underground living, just for the chanceto rise, molt,and fuck.

How can I have explainedthe myriad of ways a body knows how to leavesystems turning out the lightsthe way when a body drowns, it fightsor when a shell falls, the neck breaksso there isn't any consciousness?

My faith doesn't have interventionor rely on reason for being as muchas design, fractalas much as life forceseasonal shift, perpetual recyclingthe fact of a deer sitingthe book opening to the exact page you neededfor a memorial servicethe way ghosts talk back to youthrough other people & what happens when you think of them.

None of my answersare comfortable.My mosaic is not what I expressed

Instead, I lent her my arms for vertebra quakeand the unrolling salt tide.I said something about the persistence of greenthe celebration of colors in spring& how there are just some answerswe're just not meant to receive until we trip over them.

We have each otherdry twigs for bonfiresvices to dull our sensesand jackal laughterin the meanwhilewith the elements until we join them.

I’ve got to get out-Detecting metal with my jawWired shutOn duty assigned duringInstructional time-My role has changed without my consent.Safe word ignored,My boundaries are blown throughSo now all I’m surrounded by isFree fall;Still at the mercy of aGhetto suburban mortgage,I show up-At least in person,Scribbling sonnets on pay stubs,Doing anything to keep my penMoving-My adult life is swallowing me whole-So I sit in it’s womb andScrawl on the walls,Amniotic fluid the ink,Writing the medium,Chasing the next high inStenciled sentiments,I stay within the lines,Adding to the ones becoming morePronounced beside my eyesWhen I smile-But I wouldn’t be a kid againFor anything in the world.That’s when you don’t have the wordsThat might protect you,So you try them all,Speaking in a halting cadence,Lollipop-sweet breath pleading forUnconditional security-They kept you safe from everyoneBut themselves.And this grown-up suit we don dailyIs no guarantee that we will emerge from the grindUnscathed-Quite the contrary,At times it’s a promise thatTeeth marks will appear across our jugulars likeBone chokers made to silence the weak-7 days to recreate your world from theSkeleton outline you have been reduced to;You can do it-Just pick up the tools of the trade,And pray it’s a fair one.This is not what I signed on for-Perhaps I was hearing impaired when they wereHanding out the instructions,But mine are printed backwards and in aDialect I cannot accessEven when I dial collect-The charges will be brought against meRegardless of what avenue I take,And the truth is I rarely know where I’m going.My moral compass is stuck on “maybe”,So decisions aren’t my strong suit-I outgrew that one long ago anyway.So here I am,Detecting metal with my jaw wired shut,Skipping double-dutch in a maze of beaurocracy,Itching in this grown-up suit,And fidgeting with responsibility.I can’t see over the counter,But my bills come due anyway.I show up-At least in person.The rest is kept under dredlocs and key,Hiding what is the real secret, the real treasure-Me.

I'm getting a bunch of little gems in my poem-a-day box from Poets.Org.This one is really lovely,it has a subplot.It's a poem within a poem! If you can do this, it could cover two 30-30s in one.

Firefliesby Fred Chappell

The children race now here by the ivied fence, gather squealing now there by the lily border. The evening calms the quickened air, immense and warm; its veil is pierced with fire. The order of space discloses as pair by pair porch lights carve shadows. Cool phosphors flare when dark permits yearning to signal where, with spark and pause and spark, the fireflies are, the sites they spiral when they aspire, with carefree ardor busy, to embrace a star that draws them thence.

Like children we stand and stare, watching the field that twinkles where gold wisps fare to the end of dusk, as the sudden sphere, ivory shield aloft, of moon stands clear of the world's far bend.

Friday, April 9, 2010

You have stopped listening it,the symphony of howls,the children of the night.They need a leader,some shuffling menagerie of smokeand campfire reasons to stay awake,they need a black caped Moses.I had such high hopes for you all.All the power you've been given.I gave you all the room you needed to grow fangs,and use them.

But you, you little-kids forever,did not see the world I gave you.You ignored the pulsing open veinsfull of sticky red promise,my poor misguided child don't you realize wheelof this world wieldsonly two constant un-shifting truths:We exist,and we are thirsty.Stretch your lips, children.Roar back to the animals who long for you,let them know they have a leader again.Do not dull the edges of your name with your pretty-eyed mistakes.Humans are no prize.It pains me to watch you suck excuses out of animals, you're growing children sipping applesauce down,do not play with your food.The lion never falls in love with the tourist foolish enough to come near.I can no longer sit and watch you purr in a cage.

I lived on the lips of innkeepers, priests, villagers, floating on clouds of their fear for centuries.You are undoing everything I have built, yanking us back to stuffed animal cereal box jokes,no one is scared of us.Do not let them turn you into something they can keep in the light.

These humans are whittling away your fangs with every kiss,do not let them laugh at you.

I loved this world so much that I gave them a perfect monster to huddle in the dark against.That monster, now old as the dust, calls out for a successor. Some new set of teeth to hold the world by the throat.

Listen to their lullaby, my children of the night.The people in the city beneath are sleeping, helpless.There is a symphony of rhythm in their throats.Fill your starving bellies,Do not disappoint me.

your back knew borrowed cars as roomsthe wood of picnic table, church basement, wood pylonthe splash of waves on your ankles in timewith tongues and palms

an ink blotter--that's what you werepicking up lessons with every grift, every doughy rolleach gift of freckle and frondimprinting, staining, twining up the trellis of you

and now you are keeper of this particular photo albuman information of faces, knowledge of orgasm poseone or another echoing with conversations, shared frailtiesconfidences, tears, the intimacies of repeated meetings

a few stand outalone, always fresh, always youngyour spine remembering how that one held younext to a lake, the feel of maple bark rippling skin

how strange to be by yourself on a couchin this life that didn't quite turn outthe way you never could have predictedfrom crocus days of small blooming

in twilight, you hear of one of them passingand think it unusual to be old enough to have such ghostsnot that you would ever be with them as grownjust that they are secured as amber frozen younglike your memory.

(there will be a funny version of this to match the title, eventually, I promise)

you can hear him sucking if you listen closely enoughit's between the florid lines of prosewhich really don't make a lot of sense if your eyes aren't bloodshot

bloodhe's out for the blood of uterus after uterustroubled by the toilet paper dolls they're buried insidecutting themselves free of each other

he can't help himselfplumbing third dog leg stylethe only extension left without a numbed nervethey don't understandhe's trying to make art with their spiritsjackson pollack splatter, he's just collecting blends for the artdrunk blindno longer remembering who, what, where whenit's all puzzle piecesand he's lost himself to jigsaw

vampirehe left his body a long time agogave it up to fluids, pursuit, night moveshe's what james caroline called"a ballad for falling"though he is more like operaas he grabs shovel handlesdigging for deeper gravesto sleep in, blot out the sunor insomniabecause accountability is a bitch

many of them

with names

faces emerging through discarded tissue shroudstheir uteruses now wanderingand he's so addictedhe can't help but still smell their bloodmistake it for lovewant to suckthe life out of them

a lestathe's given himself upto egomonster with an audiencetwittering with claps and, like, omgsbut he imagines we can't seeas though his interior decaydoesn't move with arms and legslocks looseunhingingtricks nobody with a straight facethere are some thingspretty skinelbow from assjust can't hide

Our voices race to the towers, and up beyondthe atmosphere, to the satellite,slowly turning, then back downto another tower, and cell. Quincy,Toi, Honoree, Sarah, Dorianne,Galway. When Athena Elizalex calls,I tell her I'm missing Lucille's dresses,and her shoes, and Elizabeth says "And she would say,"Damn! I do look good!'" After wehang up, her phone calls me againfrom inside her jacket, in the grocery storewith her elder son, eleven, I cannot hear the words, just part of the matterof the dialogue, it's about sugar, I amin her pocket like a spirit. Then I dream it —looking at an illuminated cityfrom a hill, at night, and suddenlythe lights go out — like all the starsgone out. "Well, if there is great sexin heaven," we used to say, "or even justsex, or one kiss, what's wrongwith that?!" Then I'm dreaming a map of the globe, withbright pinpoints all over it —in the States, the Caribbean, Latin America,in Europe, and in Africa —everywhere a poem of hers is beingread. Small comfort. Not smallto the girl who curled against the wall around the coreof her soul, keeping it alive, with longlabor, then unfolded into the hard truths, thelucid beauty, of her song.

more than amazing cleavagei am mesmerized by her dressessometimes a swirl of colorsstar bursts of redpatterns of flaredeclarations of the arrival of more womanthan most can handle

i have missed her voicethat confidence married with vulnerabilitynothing as powerful as a woman with convictionwrapped in classic femininitydelivering the goods

from my vantagei appreciate her poise on heelssmall bucklethe bell of her skirtthe chime of calves underneathin her stance

but it's those flower printsmodern daisiesand my heart still knows the firstof her poems i fell in love withblack eyed susanstheir eyestheir knowing

i hear the familiar catch in her voicea kind of feigned chuckleher performance so deliberateturning the frantic freak outon a dimeinto a revel momentan epiphany from the everydaythe truth from the liesour histories program in us

she remembers DC to meWhitman-Walker, U-Street, Van Nessthe squatterpunks, the bus stopsDuPont Circle and the malls of greenthat birthed so much of my own awakeningactivism

the listenersleap into upturned flowersdifferent kinds from the gardens of mixed girlhoodswe eve appledand we arewatered and photosynthesizedby her elemental deliveryof what we long to hear.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

As the posh suburban home sleeps,coiled in its cul-de-sac blanket woven from the warm wool of White Flight mentality,I can't help but kick myself.It was so goddam stupid,All of it.

A week ago, the order came through, Don approved.The Consiglieri for the Strazziano family had payed his toll.It was time for his river ride to the bottom,I was to mangle the man into an example."Cut out his 'eart, mail it to his cock-suckin' boss,Let 'em know we mean war..."

Mission accomplished.Dead.Done.Time to kick back, the heart was safely on its way,PO Box untraceable, to Long Island.

91107 Canter Boulevard...address letter perfect,unmarked package.

Three cups of coffee, one wire transferred six-figure sum, and a copy of the Wall Street Journal later...It hits me.

I check the black book and the thing 44 caliber tags my brain, perfect shot through my hind-sights.91107 Canter Boulevard...address letter perfect,perfectly wrong...the right address stares from my address book,Mailing address fuck-up, this is bad.And I have to go play Mr. Clean the mess I made,dammit.

It took two hours of box-cutter questions until the Post Officesuit and tie splattered what I want to know onto the floor.

91107 Canter Boulevard, small suburb, fourteen miles off the mark.Family country, family town, family neighborhood,Christ.This one's gonna make me retire...

Home, is literally where the heart is, was, will no longer be.The cliche is kicking in the balls, too bruised to laugh about it.

I'm waiting for the lights off invitation, gun silenced, stockin cap pulled down.Thank God the heart is here, unopened, addressed to no one.I pray they stay sleeping, I don't need a family of stains on my suit,or my conscience.

I cat burglar the box out...the only time a faulty alarm saved anybody.

With a bad guy's heart sitting shotgun, I light a cigarette.I belly laugh at the whole thing and drive off.The sun rises on a family confused by a missing box and oblivious to how lucky they are.The sun sets on the dumbest mistake I ever made.

I left my heart on somebody's door step,praying I got it right this time.